Jooster 'The Decline and Fall of the Young Master'
by tigersilver
Summary: A Series, inspired by the Laurie/Fry Granada TV version, 1990's BBC. In Differing POVs. Epistolary Jooster. I write happy endings, peeps; known for it. This tale may take me a bit but we'll see where it endeth and wendeth eventually, shall we?
1. Chapter 1

Jooster 'The Decline and Fall of the Young Master'

A Series. In Differing POVs.

First Letter: "Dear 'Uncle' Seppings". 2,000 words. Rated PG. No warnings.

Epistolary Jooster. Unbeta'd. I write happy endings, peeps; known for it. This tale may take me a bit to whip up but we'll see where it endeth and wendeth eventually, shall we?

* * *

11 July 19XX

Dear "Uncle" Seppings,

As my by-blood and esteemed Uncle Charlie Silversmith has recently strongly recommended me, I write to you, my dear sir, in your capacity as mine own Uncle Charlie's dearest boyhood friend and therefore, in your long-held and very kindly provided position as my very own relative-by-courtesy. It is best, as my Uncle Charlie says, to flee to the bosom of family when one finds oneself in a rum pickle.

There has arisen a rather dire situation: the exact 'rum pickle' to which I refer. I find myself quite concerned on behalf of my young master, Mr Bertram Wooster, and would take this occasion to beg of you your kind advice, as you are notably a gentleman of great perspicacity and sagaciousness, especially in the field of the study of human nature. Beyond that prowess but exceptionally pertinent to my circumstances, you possess in your ken a rather all-encompassing knowledge of Mr Wooster's Family, having been in service all these many years to various and sundry of Them.

Although I would normally never stoop to seek third-party counsel on any personal and private matter of Mr Wooster's, preferring to maintain his dignity and sanctity, I find that I am at loss and a standstill and therefore driven to somewhat desperate measures. I am sure you shall understand and abide by my deepest desire to keep this overtly advice-seeking correspondence of mine entirely private and completely obscured from the view of The Family and our fellow Staff.

The situation is this: Mr Wooster has recently found himself all too oft' in the company of his cousins, Masters Claude and Eustace, and Miss Angela, and in addition the rather rapscallion Mr Gussie. Most strangely and abruptly, this peculiar set of highly diverse but blood-related young people has had occasion to gather together repeatedly at various commercial establishments, such as Harrod's, ostensibly to consume tea and 'play at catch-up', or so Mr Wooster jokingly explains it. As if that were not odd enough, Mr Wooster unfailingly returns from these cousinly congregations in a foul and markedly murky mood, which while not entirely inexplicable (see the matter of our previously shared correspondence regarding 'the Family's younger set', subset 'Youth, the difficulty of controlling and guiding', not to mention the tangential but telling notes we have passed as to the 'Youth, the reckless and irresponsible behavior thereof'), is somewhat surprising in my view, given Mr Wooster's nearly unflagging manner of genial positivity. To wit, Mr Wooster generally is impervious to the fits-and-starts of his cohort of relations, excepting brief bouts of situational anxiety, short-lived, particularly evident when I am available to extract him, which is always.

Indeed, Mr Wooster has seemingly come to regard these fits-and-starts as a prolific sort of fodder for his ever-active fountain pen, a habit of which I approve, "Uncle", as perhaps it will provide him the opportunity to cogitate further upon his own self-improvement. Not that I imply, naturally, that Mr Wooster requires any improvement whatsoever to his 'corpus', as he so delightfully refers to Self, but then again, one is always wishful of the future enrichment of one's employer, by means of the Virtues.

But I fear I stray far from the difficulty I very much wished to lay before your discerning eyes, dear "Uncle" Seppings.

It is this. Mr Wooster is, I fear, has entered into a distinct decline, the bluest of funks, and it can be only directly due to these horrid 'teas' he's been attending so assiduously…which I would more succinctly define as 'Agony Aunt' sessions, bourn aloft and awash with lashings of shop-brewed tea, stale bakery goods and a positive raft of youthful low spirits. He is quite taciturn after these cousinly gatherings but I have been given to understand (via both my employer's now-and-again half-references and the sober accounts of several trusted observers, all of my professional acquaintance through auspice of Ganymede), the young relatives congregate solely to speak unto the thorny topic of 'True Love' and the difficulties inherent in attracting such and then, afterwards, retaining it for their very own, well into the misty future.

Now, not to further mince words, "Uncle", but it seems that the sum of these hapless cousins are bound and bent upon comparing notes and stratagems, perhaps with the goal of gaining some insight into their own much muddled situations. There is the case of Miss Angela's on again, off again affianced, Mr Glossop, to serve as a prime example; many a bump in the proverbial road have these two perhaps terribly mis-allied young persons encountered to date. Further, Masters Claude and Eustace appear to have both been struck victim by a singularly potent infatuation for the exact same attractive young person of their own circle of acquaintance (I have, sadly, not yet been able to ascertain the name of this individual, nor the sex). They are currently coping poorly with the darts and arrows of that 'love', all unrequited. This last blow to the young gentlemen is severely complicated a fierce competition between the two young Sirs for the _objet d'amour's_ potential affections, should such exist, which is doubtful. Lastly, Mr Gussie, I believe, is said to be caught up in a wildly ill-judged three-party romantic quandary and has become the butt of a form of what could only be termed as an 'emotional blackmail', and that originating via the other young male involved, who is said to be quite territorial. Sad cases all, as I am sure you will agree.

May I note here that not a one of this pathos-laden lot of (may I say it, dear "Uncle", between us two?) of bleeding young fools has yet to approach me in hopes of resolving their own personal matters, not a one. Let it be known, though, that I find it to be more of a blessed relief than anything else, as it is not they but my very own employer whose precarious emotional state must always be paramount, at least in my view.

For, whilst I am certain Mr Wooster has many a tale to relate on both topics (the attracting and then the retention of 'true love', such as it is), as he has suffered a whole slew of shattered engagements in recent years, on the whole (and this I had apparently erroneously believed), he had concluded most sensibly he was better off without it, this 'love', this ineluctable passion of Soul. There is rested, peaceably, for quite some time. Now, all at once, this situation has taken a distinct turn for the Worse. Nor have I been in any manner made aware he has most very recently ventured into such an inconveniently insalubrious state as 'love', nor was I apprised either by observation or outright confession that he has found himself once again hopelessly embroiled in the awful clutches—nor even been saddled by yet another unnecessary fiancé, courtesy of one of the Elders of the Family.

I fear I digress. If you will please also forgive my shattered grammatical structure, dearest of adoptive uncles, as I relate this sorry tale of mine. My brevity has been sorely tried, you understand? Thus are the untold woes of a devoted manservant. We toil always upward, as Sisyphus.

Mr Wooster is, as I am certain you're well aware, a blithe young man, and of purely sound heart and excellent physique. There is, I am proud to claim, neither a jealous nor self-serving bone existing in his body. If and ever he should have occasion to truly enter into a state of this much-abused and abusive 'love' and have his regard returned sincerely and in equal measure, I would be most highly pleased on his behalf, even if it meant the eventual loss of my own position of valet. But this, dear "Uncle" Seppings, has never once transpired, not in all my five long pleasant years of service to Mr Wooster. On the utter contrary, in every single previous case Mr Wooster's lights 'o love have proven unworthy and specious, and even, in some extreme cases, distinctly dangerous to his good health and best welfare. He has been, may I say, well shed of these flimsy (and occasionally actively 'flim-flamming'!) excuses for a pure and proper Young Womanhood. I've been delighted to provide such small services as I may to enable his ongoing convivial attitude toward this great adventure we mortals call 'Life'.

As well, and also in every case thus far, Mr Wooster has, shall we say, 'bounced back' from his short-term infatuations with the startling exuberant force of a ball comprised of freshly wound-and-bound India rubber, and with no lasting loss suffered to his nearly always over-generously forgiving view of the other gender. He has acted, in short, in a way similar to his own bath companion, the small but impervious yellow duckling, in that any lingering malaise brought on by Love's Losses doth roll off his youthful back-and-shoulders in short order. All my young master's ill-deserved aggravation by way of Cupid's misspent Arrow simply evaporates, in truth. That was the way of it, but alas. No more.

This is not the case now, not at all. He is stricken,my Mr Wooster.

Indeed, Mr Wooster is clearly afflicted, and dreadfully so. It troubles me to a vast degree, "Uncle", that my young master's face is now near perpetually sorrowful in repose, his appetite direly diminished when brought to table and his _bon vivant_ attitude towards his usual pastimes (the Drones and so forth) has turned dim, despondent and lackadaisical. In short, "Uncle", Mr Wooster is off his feed and out-of-sorts, and this quite suddenly.

I fret for his sake, of course, and also I have turned my mind to considering the probable causes.

My suspicions are these: if these cousins are truly gathering to provide themselves a safe venue of discussion in re their own ill-fortuned issues at the hands of Cupid, and if Mr Wooster has been called into attendance merely to be amicable and provide a sanguine and cousinly ear, then why would he be affected so, and in such an adverse manner? There is most certainly something piscine rotting in Denmark! It may be but a red herring, "Uncle", but my only logical conclusion is that Mr Wooster has indeed been cast into a state of amoré, unbeknownst to us All, and is suffering vastly, due to it. My own advice, though, has not been sought by my master, nor has he even uttered the merest hint, verbal or otherwise, of broaching the matter to me, whatever it may actually be. To act in this manner is most unlike Sir, dear "Uncle". Indeed, it is so far estranged from his usual character, I dare admit I honestly fear for his mind as well as his battered heart!

I should be enormously grateful if you would deign to shed some little ray of light, given that you have been acquainted with the Family for a much longer period than I, and further, have known personally both of my Mr Wooster's unfortunately departed parents. It may be that the old adage 'the apple falls not far from the tree' applies here, at least in the aspect of familially-forwarded behavioural attributes, and Mr Wooster is perhaps following in the footsteps of his departed Father or Mother, or possibly another close relative, perhaps his uncle Henry or (Heavens forfend!) his other uncle Willoughby.

To explicate further my reasoning, as it metaphorically relates to apples and their primogenital trees, "Uncle", please permit me to lay plain my small knowledge of Mr Wooster's family history. For instance, I have been given to understand that Mr Wooster's poor departed parents were quite amazingly devoted. The late Mrs Wooster was said to over the moon for Mr Wooster by all accounts. But more specifically, and as relates to my own Mr Wooster, that the elder Mr Wooster, though of very similar positive, nay, even dare call it 'jolly', attitude as the current Sir, was the veriest pattern card of husbandly affection before his untimely departure from this vale of tears. This, despite any number of stray females vying constantly for his companionship, even after he had tied the proverbial with my young master's _mater_. The senior Mr Wooster, then (one can only logically conclude), was enormously capable of feeling intensely strong emotions of care and adoration for another; it follows that my young master is as equally blessed…or cursed, and by simple means of inheritance.

If this is so and Mr Wooster's honest heart has been rejected or perhaps even trampled, it would go very ill for him. I desperately fear such a situation arising may be precisely what has him laid so horribly low.

In conclusion, and if it pleases you, "Uncle", I should very much appreciate any wise words from your lips to my ear, as to how I may seek to alleviate my master's not terribly well concealed anguish of the Heart. I find I cannot bear to allow it to continue on unimpeded without doing my not insignificant all to combat it. Mr Wooster is a gentleman who is most deserving of all happinesses, in my opinion, and I have ever done my best to attend to his various needs and wishes, expressed or implied. I have absolutely no wish to fail him at this juncture.

With my best regards and hopes to receive an advisory missive in return from your sage hand in the near future, I remain your ever respectful "Nephew",

R. Jeeves.


	2. Chapter 2

13 July 19XX

Dear Aggie,

I fear I really must ask of you, though I would much rather not: what in heaven's name is amiss with the young blot that is our dear Bertie? He was dolefully dragging his tail feathers around the old keep all this last week-end and not even Anatole's finest efforts could tempt from him a smile nor coax from him a song . In fact, I quite thought I'd stumble across him expired in my roses. It was most distressing.

Tell me, please. Have you gone and threatened him with yet another fiancé? If so, do please instantly desist, as I believe he may be ailing. Or at least, verging on the cusp.

For that matter, dear Sister, do you have the faintest clue of what's been recently ruffling the entire brood of them? I declare I've not seen such woeful faces on Henry's pesky blighters Claude and Eustace since they were last sent down and had their allowances cut. Also, Emily writes me that she's at a loss as why they're behaving so oddly, and requests my 'sage advice' on the matter! To which I uttered a loud 'Hah!' and then was forced to bite my lips and withhold my pen from paper, as naturally my 'sage advice' to Em would consist of giving her mad young rapscallions a good, solid dunking in the mill pond!

Sadly, even my own sweet Angela also seems a bit stricken and mopeful, though she claims it more to do with that blasted Hildebrand Glossop's latest starts. Take my 'sage advice' on this one thing, Aggie, if nothing else. Do not ever allow your young Thos to enter the Drones Club!

Enough is enough, Aggie. Have you any idea what may be happening? I confess I am puzzled. Most especially by our idiot nephew.

Best regards, and I shall expect to hear from you by return post.

Your fond sister, D


	3. Chapter 3

17 July, 19XX

WHAT HO BERTIE STOP YOUR ADVICE AS TO SWIFT MANLY ACTION STRANGELY SUCCESSFUL STOP MY ANGEL AND I UNITED OVER ANVIL THIS AM STOP BLACKSMITH SHOPPES PECULIAR BUT CORKINGLY USEFUL STOP SCOTLAND TOPPING STOP FISHING BRILLIANT STOP YOU ARE CERTAIN YOU DIDN'T CONSULT JEEVES STOP UNBELIEVABLE BUT THANKS ALL THE SAME STOP TUPPY


	4. Chapter 4

21 July, 19XX

My dear Sissie,

I write to extend you my regrets, most sincerely, and excuse myself from attendance of the upcoming and annual brief holiday with the Family: this coming week-end? It is with great sorrow, and such short notice, but I find I am quite completely unable to vacate Mr Wooster's side at this time; he can not be left safely alone in his time of travail.

In some small form of a very discreet explanation, almost an aside, and to your sympathetic ears from my lips, please allow me to simply report that my dearest young Master is sorely afflicted in his spirits, and has been existing thusly for a considerable period, lasting now weeks upon endless end: four at the least; and I have yet to divine either the cause nor the exact nature of his ailment. I am, Sissie, overwrought, plainly.

Indeed, it has become my overweening desire to do so, discovering this uncommon ailment, and then naturally to take any steps necessary to provide Mr Wooster cure and succour, but—to my utter frustration—I have yet to achieve the slightest glimpse of success in my endeavours. Worse yet, all my observations and enquiries into the matter have proved fruitless. His so-called 'friends' and Family—even my fellow servants and acquaintances via my Club, Ganymede—have provided scant data; further, his own dear lips remain completely sealed, moreover, against all my subtle hinting and even my outright questioning.

My dear Sissie, I can hardly bear to see it, Mr Wooster's obvious decline! And yet…and yet, he will not speak. I am rendered quite helpless, you see?

As you are aware, dearest Sissie, Mr Wooster is of the most highest value, at least in my view; a sterling young gentleman, and deserving of his usual _bon vivant_ attitude towards the vagaries of this vale of tears we ironically term 'Life'. Though some may decry my Mr Wooster's high spirits, I personally find them delightful and uplifting. His disposition is such that he encourages others to take on a sense of cheer and blatant positivity. It is, in a word, 'hopeful'. Thus, and rather naturally, it pains me to an enormous degree that he has fallen all but deathly silent, his normal chatter and verve muted, his daily activities set aside in favour of decidedly more sedate pursuits. Why, it has been nearly a month since Mr Wooster has brought home (or rather, should say I 'snuck' home?) any offensive accessories, policemen's helmets or garb! More than that, two full weeks have passed since he last was needful of being collected by either me, his valet, or our intrepid doorman, Mr Jarvis, from his Club. I am, as you might imagine, rather floored by these events. They were_ not_ what I was expecting.

Sissie, I confess I know not what to do at this juncture, nor where to look next for enlightenment. Classically, all signs indicate that my Mr Wooster is clearly heart-sick, but I know not over whom, nor even when it may have occurred. He is not recently engaged (willingly or no), nor enamoured of anyone, (not even of someone desperately Unsuitable, which he would likely attempt to keep hidden from until such a time as he was in requirement of last-minute, shame-faced assistance with extraction; all forgivable, all expected!)

Sissie, my dear, there are no indications He has been tricked into keeping poor company, or been fleeced, or roped into some unsavoury scheme. Indeed, and most refreshingly, there has been a marked decrease in the demands made upon him by his 'friends' and his Family. It is rather terrifyingly peaceful, actually, here at our flat; no hi-jinks at all and I've not been required to extricate either Mr Wooster, nor his friends, relations, and or even passing acquaintances from a single snare in all this last fortnight. I am a total loss to explain it, but it certainly vastly odd. I find, I admit, the lack thereof unsettling. I find His quietude, unaccustomed, more so. It is not like Him, and I miss my own Mr Wooster, very much.

Sissie, I am at loss. I repeat!

The only other anomaly I've observed is that Mr Wooster has been taking tea regularly with his cousins, the younger elder set. My connections via my own Club have provided me some insight into what takes place during these small Family confabulations: Mr Wooster spends a great deal of his time sipping improperly prepared tea and inhaling cakes and puddings at various commercial centres and tea shoppes and his assortment of cousins browbeat his poor ears with their frivolous tales of their 'private feelings', all throughout. It is as though my Master has been somehow transformed into a sort of 'Agony Uncle', Sissie—a role which I would've stridently proclaimed previously he was entirely unsuited for.

And yet…and yet. My dear Sissie, Mr Wooster appears to be doling out some manner of sound advice to these young relations of his. Case in point: not more than a few days ago he received a highly surprising and unsolicited telegram from one of his school-year's intimates, a young gentleman graced with the unfortunate nickname of 'Tuppy', who is, not coincidentally (and on an on-again, off-again basis, may I add!) affianced to Mr Wooster's cousin, Miss Angela. This 'Tuppy' had sent it as a matter of thanking my Master, as a polite man will do, and an as old school-mate, and for a job well done, in not only healing a rift between himself (Mr 'Tuppy') and his official beloved (Miss Angela), but by further suggesting that 'Tuppy' and Miss Angela cement their proposed union by way of a 'swift and permanent' method! My ingenious young Master evidently had urged Mr 'Tuppy' to take 'swift, manly' action, probably in hopes of impressing Miss Angela, and had apparently gone so far as to encourage the young couple to elope to the Highlands together.

The Highlands! Damp, wet, and beset by numerous lot of Scots, oh my! I wonder, I do, what possessed Him, my sweet, unsuspecting Mr Wooster, suggesting this? Perhaps a brain fever, brought on by poorly brewed tea? I blame Harrod's, truly I do.

Nonetheless, now, Sissie, you must be made to understand that Miss Angela, though not the veriest Soul of Propriety, is still quite the conventional young lady and generally comports herself in a way suitable to her Class. I can only surmise that Mr Wooster somehow managed to, shall we say? 'Set the stage', as it were, thus enabling Mr 'Tuppy' to overcome all prior obstacles and take up in firm fist his own heart's desire. 'Swift, sure, manly action' occurred, indeed. They are married, and one obstacle is, in effect, settled nicely, _sans_ the necessary behind-the-scenes activities of your younger brother. Pardon me, Sissie, if I dare inhale a relived sigh?

What ho, my delightful young Master? What have you wrought, all unknowing...or knowing? And in this precarious state? I fret, Sissie, I do.

If this is so, I can only applaud Him. Him, being my young Master. It is well past time to set these young people to rights, and I must, perforce, be happy that this course has been set. Set apparently by my very dear Mr Wooster…But I fear, I fear, Sissie. I have a certain trembling in the breast area, a certain chill. This is not the Mr Wooster I am grown accustomed to, and I feel the great lack. He did not consult me; he never spoke a word to me, Sissie. And I would have gone down on my knees to solve this, this simple issue, and gone down on my knees again, simply grateful for his smile, once it was accomplished. It wouldn't have necessarily required the Scots anvil, though I admit that was rather a rum touch.

There are times when Mr Wooster absolutely sets me rocking back on my heels; that was one. I was all over admiration; speechless. That day. And could not express it, alas, alack. Not acceptable, naturally. Not 'done'. I would've dared…I don't what I would dared, dearest Sissie, but it cannot have been acceptable. Not by anyone's Standards, certainly not mine own.

Or yours, Sissie. I know how you feel, of course, about men like me. I only thank Mama (and the Lord) that you've not cast me forth, and be rid of me, as you ought. Truly a Christian, dearest Sissie, that is what you are. In the Classic sense.

Speaking of Classical, you know—and have known—how much and how far I would go, for him, Mr Wooster. There are no limits, Sissie mine. I am…nothing. But nothing, in the end. I am but a simple servant, but I know Quality. And Mr Wooster is all that is Quality. There is no logical break in my care for him; it is his due, I believe. I would give my all for him, I would do such more…I am hopeless. But happy, being so. Do not trouble yourself to worry for me, Sissie. I have all that I require and more. In Him. And I shall not speak of it, shall mention it only briefly, for I know it disturbs you, but only to you and very few others may I speak at all, at all, and not fear instant retribution, or the clasping on of cuffs and the inevitable hard labour.

That aside, (foul thought!) it is gratuitously apparent, what I feel for Him, what emotions I am prey to, all for Him, and all unsuitable and incorrect as they may be. I am not so unawares, dear Sissie; I know the dangers. But He, Mr Wooster? He is mine, you see, to care for. For the moment, and for these last five years. For these next five to come, if I am so fortunate to experience it. I would care for him, my dear Sister, to the best of my poor ability. For all my life, and beyond...far more than 'five'. I cannot enumerate the days I would care, really. They are countless.

As you do with your Hugh, I imagine, and with our sweet Mabel, and then dearest young Roderick. Days endless, and full of sweet care, freely given.

You have expressed your deep emotion regarding your husband, the good Hugh, and similar. At the time I confess I did not understand, fresh from schooling and service. No heart had ever stuck me in that way, that manner. I had thought, ridiculously, that no heart ever would, that such emotion was best left to the ones who best dealt with it…and I was not one of those. A cold fish, Sissie. I was a very cold fish.

But no longer. I feel this way, Sissie. For Him, for Mr Wooster, for my love. And I've not the recourse of marriage or official bond to make it so, nor even any hope He feels as I do. Indeed, far from it. I would think, more like, He would be appalled. By me, and what I hide in my heart. If I were him I'd shrink away, every chance. I've no want to offer Him the chance to do so; I am the_ parfait_ gentleman's gentleman, always. I shall not slip, so no fear, Sissie. It's hopeless, but it's also all right. I hide it, and He doesn't know. He only knows his man is 'his' and will always be.

As it should be.

I know you fret, Sissie, but gaol time and hard labour would not suit me—nor Him! I shall never risk it, not allow Him to, my Mr Wooster. But burn this missive, Sissie, after you've read it? Let's not. Let's not, shall we? Let us not. Papa, in all his dire anger, would not approve, and Mama would experience another of her 'fits'. I should not like to trouble their memories. I should not like to leave you with a scarlet trail of evidence, either. You are innocent, Sissie, and have always been. It isn't your fault I am the way I am—it is solely mine burden to bear. I only thank you for being willing to listen.

It is only pen to paper, but I must confess: this is a situation sorely trying, Mr Wooster's. It pains my heart, something awfully.

But I do hide it, steadfastly, and the young Master does not know, cannot know. He'll never know, not from these lips. You need not be concerned. I am discreet, as always. But left lorn, and aching, and I would so sorely wish to help _him_, my lovely Bertie.

As such, Sissie, I would so very much like to solve this conundrum. I would so very much wish to provide Mr Wooster some relief. It clearly taxes him and yet he remains silent and does not ask of me for any aid. I would give my aid to him at the drop of a cravat, at the clink of a tea cup, at the sonorous howling of one of Mr Wooster's Aunts. As you are aware, dear Sissie. As you have become aware, after Mother's passing. I missed him, sorely, then. And he was kind enough to drove me down. Sissie. A better gentleman you'll never find, trust me.

If you would…if you would just cast an eye to this, this plea, and provide me any advice, any counsel, I would. I would be most appreciative. For I cannot leave him, I dare not leave him. I will not leave him until he (or his wife, whomever that may be, this Great Unknown) sends me away. I will not go.

Sissie, I rely upon you. To keep my secrets, to balance my lack. I'm well aware I am woefully lacking for all my accomplishments. I may be a gentleman's gentleman, but I am also human. Sissie, you have the wisdom, same as Mother had. What shall I do? What shall I do, now? For I cannot do _nothing_, or I will run mad.

With fond regards,

Reg


End file.
